


Only if for a night

by 2stupid, orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Dark fic, M/M, Man!malexia, Not Canon Compliant, Psychological Smut, Tumblr, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2stupid/pseuds/2stupid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almalexia asks if Sul's boned Nerevar yet. Sul would rather Nerevar bone him. Things get out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only if for a night

**Author's Note:**

> Alandro Sul is back from the dead-ish. Almalexia has refound her coveted godhood. Mournhold is perfectly fine and not run over with angry Argonians. It's a little over two hundred years into the Fourth Era.  
> First posted as part of a tumblr rp.

Ayem chuckles. “So did you bone Nerevar yet?”

 Sul does his best to ignore her, and the Hands holding him down. The sight of Nerevar’s face glaring at him is distracting. “I was rather hoping Nerevar would bone me. Why am I here?”

 Ayem ignores his question. “How’s he going to do that while he’s a female?”

 “Time and patience. And maybe a strap-on,” Sul almost snarls.

 “You can borrow mine if you like. It’s like brand new. Godly powers and all that. Or I could just bone you.”

 Sul is rather taken aback. It takes him a bit to gather his wits. “Only if you pretend to be Nerevar.”

 “So you want me to blush and cry when I stick it in…?” Ayem tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.

 Sul flushes. He really hasn’t considered the ramifications of what is, in reality, an unlikely fantasy. “He’s Nerevar. I-I couldn’t… I can’t…”

 Ayem laughs, light from the flickering torches illuminating the long curve of his throat. “Mother of CHIM, you’re just like him. Look, I’ll make it worth your while. I know how Nerevar is in bed, it’ll live up to your every expectation in the meanwhile before you actually sleep with him.”

 This is a trap. It has to be. Sul knows this, and yet, the temptation is so strong. “I… I shouldn’t… you’re his… you killed… please?”

 “Of course. Come on over, I have the perfect room set up.”

 Sul can’t say no. He’s trying, but it comes out as, “A-ah… yes, my lord. Umm… Ihaven’tactuallydoneitsincethattimeweweredrunkafterthebattlewithWulfharth.”

 Ayem looks even more amused, and Sul “Oh Sul… why do you look so nervous? You’ve always been so loyal to me… I thought it was time to thank you for that.”

 Sul finally manages to snap himself out of it. “My lord… No! You’re not Nerevar! You killed him! What was I thinking?”

 Ayem doesn’t look the least bit disappointed, and that odd fog in his head increases. “Shh, Sul. You don’t need to get upset. You want to be here, don’t you? Don’t you want to work out your feelings before you lose control when you’re with Nerevar? Do you think he could trust you if you slipped up, hmm? Spend some time with me and you’ll be in much… better control of your urges…”

 “I… I… No, I don’t.” He gives up and lets everything happen as they happen. Ayem’s face seems to blend with Nerevar’s in his mind. Nerevar, Ayem. Nerevayem. Sul looks at Nerevayem, closes his eyes, and uses his imagination. “My Lord, I’m so sorry about RedMountain.” He draws Nerevayem closer to himself and kisses, softly at first but harder until they’re both breathless, unless it’s just him and Nerevayem is only pretending. He doesn’t care. One arm cradles Nerevayem’s head, pulling it down until he can reach his/her lips, while the other traces its way down his/her back. He rubs slow, firm circles along the arch of Nerevayem’s spine.

 

 At this point, it seems clear that Nerevayem has gotten completely into character, for his cheeks are bright red and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands for a few moments. Hesitantly, he places them on Sul’s shoulders, pulling him closer into the kiss, which is becoming more heated. When Sul’s hands begin to knead into his spine, he makes a soft noise of surprised pleasure into the kiss and opens his eyes. The kiss ends slowly, and in the dim light of the room, he really does look like Nerevar - if not in facial features, then in expression and the light in his eyes. It looks like he genuinely cares for Sul in that moment, like they’ve known each other for years and gone through terrible trials together. 

 “Ah… Sul,” he murmurs, and though his voice doesn’t quite match Nerevar’s, he’s doing a damn good impression. “Don’t… apologize. You did everything you could… you were there for me until the end,” he murmured, and his eyebrows furrow slightly before he reaches up to cup Sul’s cheek, leaning down to draw him into another kiss.

 

 “Thank you, my Lord.” Sul leans in. As the kiss ends, he trails soft kisses along Nerevayem’s jawline until he’s sucking gently at the junction between neck and shoulder. “I am yours to command.” His hand drops from Nerevayem’s head and traces the contours of a well-muscled arm. 

 

Nerevayem tilts his head back as Sul’s lips trail lower, gasping quietly whenever he finds anywhere that’s particularly sensitive. He moves his hands to run down Sul’s back, rubbing over his spine and then around to hips. He holds him there, pulling them flush up against each other. All of this is more forward than he knows Nerevar would be, but it has to be — nothing would be getting done if he was acting entirely like Nerevar. 

He lets Sul have his fun for a bit, then squeezes his hips gently, his eyes having gone dark with lust. “Then… I want you to… undress,” he murmurs, being sure to dip his head and lower his eyes demurely in the way Nerevar would after giving such a bold command in such an ‘embarrassing’ situation, biting his lip at the same time just for effect.

 

 Sul is caught up in his fantasy, and doesn’t notice the discrepancy. He gasps with surprise and pleasure. “Yes, my Lord. Anything. Anything.” He isn’t wearing armor; for that he is thankful. The shirt is easy enough. He fumbles a bit at the clasp before releasing the catch, and shivers at the sensation of soft, worn linen sliding down his body. He tugs his sash loose, and watches both articles of clothing float to the floor. The room is warm enough that he doesn’t mind untying his sandals and stepping out of his pants. He moves slowly, taking care with every movement, and wonders if Nerevar enjoys the show. He’s afraid to look up and see disappointment in Nerevar’s eyes. He would be ashamed of his nakedness in front of any other person, but revels in the fact that he can stand in front of Nerevar, that Nerevar would want to see him, all of him. 

 Sul slowly slides into a kneeling position and lowers his head. He closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is lower, huskier than he expects. “What do you wish of me, my Lord?” 

 

Nerevayem’s eyes track Sul’s every movement, though the man is carefully not meeting his gaze. He doesn’t mind; it’s a chance to allow himself to break character and fully appreciate the show he’s being given. He’s always been a bit curious about Sul, and now it seems his curiosity is being satisfied. When the man is finally undressed and kneeling so temptingly at his feet,

 Nerevayem lowers a hand and slides it into Sul’s hair, stroking and teasing the strands slowly.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, because it’s the type of thing Nerevar always says in bed. He doesn’t put as much nervousness or embarrassment into his tone that would have been present in Nerevar’s, but instead lets himself slip into a slightly huskier tone, one that he has heard from Nerevar before, though only rarely. He rubs Sul’s scalp a bit, his eyes hooding slightly as he considers what to say next. “Pl… please, I want you to… to use your mouth,” he murmurs, though Nerevar would probably never have requested such a thing. The tone, at least, is spot on.

 

 Sul is new to this. He was young when he first met Nerevar, and hasn’t considered a different partner since. Nervously, he ghosts his lips along the inside of Nerevar’s thigh, enjoying the feel of Nerevar’s fingers sliding through his hair. Nerevar smells of fine leather and sharply scented cleansing oils and the faint, musky smell of aroused Chimer. He can also smell the scent of the perfumes Almalexia likes to wear, and chooses to ignore it. This is him, and Nerevar, and no one else. 

 When he reaches Nerevar’s loincloth he feels a slight pang of jealousy at the state of Nerevar’s arousal, which is quickly smothered by pride in his work. The entire act feels slightly surreal, like moving through a dream. He doesn’t remember being so happy or content since… 

 Nerevar’s fingers tug at his hair impatiently, bringing him back to the present. “Thank you, my Lord,” he whispers, his face buried in the crease between Nerevar’s thigh and groin. He licks Nerevar experimentally, slowly, watching heavy cloth darken with moisture and rub across sensitized flesh. 

 

 Nerevayem twists his fingers into Sul’s hair when the man finally seems to remember what it is he’s supposed to be doing, not tugging but still a noticeable presence and a constant reminder. His eyes are focused firmly on Sul, finding the sight of the boy kneeling at his feet to be a rather fascinating one. 

 Being a god has its advantages. He is vaguely aware of the track of Sul’s thoughts, and adjusts his own scent when he notices that there is a faint lingering scent of perfumes (colognes, now — it wouldn’t do to mismatch appearance and scent), so that he smells entirely like Nerevar likely would. He doesn’t imagine Sul would be too familiar with it, so only the slightest push back to the right direction will further immerse him into his own fantasy. 

 He feels a dark smile curl his lips when Sul finally puts his mouth to the fabric of his loincloth, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly in the Chimer’s hair. This is yet another detail that will not match up, but Sul really has no way of noticing this difference, and it’s not one Nerevayem is about to change. 

 And though the shy licks along his loincloth are not really doing much for him, he has a character to play, and he won’t abandon it now. He feels his eyebrows draw up and his lips part in the pleasure Nerevar would likely be overwhelmed with now.

 “A-ah, Sul,” he murmurs, the man’s name sliding off his tongue as smooth and sweet as honey, filled with adoration and admiration.

 

 Sul hears his name, and it gives him the courage to continue. He nips at the waistband of Nerevar’s loincloth until he finally gets a good grip on it and drags it down. He tongues Nerevar a bit, feeling loose skin slide around his lips, unsure how to continue, and finally decides that sucking would be the best option. He pushes his mouth forward, and desperately tries not to gag as something hits the back of his throat. 

  _It’s so big,_ he muses.  _At least, it feels so much bigger than…_  Nerevar makes a sharp thrusting motion, and he has to fight down the urge to gag again. He doesn’t make Nerevar repeat himself. He clamps his lips down, tries not to close his jaws, and begins sucking, feeling the muscles at the back of his throat flutter wildly at the unexpected intrusion. No. Not intrusion. This is Nerevar, with his warm golden skin and brilliant red hair, who moved like the wind and retained an odd innocence at odds with his deeds. He bobs his head forward and back, slowly bringing Nerevar to full arousal, ignoring the saliva dripping down his chin and the ache in his knees from kneeling on hard, unforgiving stone. 

 

 Nerevayem slides his hand through Sul’s hair appreciatively when he begins to suck in earnest, though he honestly finds the attempt to be clumsy and not very exciting. What is exciting to him is the mental, psychological aspect to what’s happening. Sul is so caught up in his fantasy that, although part of him knows he’s not, he believes he’s finally being with Nerevar like he wants to. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, and the thought of all the deceit and betrayal and plots that go along with what’s happening makes his breath genuinely catch in his chest. He shudders and licks his lips, and stares down at Sul, now determined to have him despite how shy and virginal he may be.

 He moans lowly when Sul takes more of him in, slightly impressed that he hasn’t gagged. That at least is worthy of praise; unsurprisingly, Nerevayem is well endowed, and this is likely the first time Sul has done any of this. 

 Still, he has other plans, and if the boy keeps going along like he is, it will get boring. He lets him continue for a few more minutes, still moaning and gasping Sul’s name in true Nerevar fashion, before tightening his grip in Sul’s hair and pulling him back slightly.

 

 “S-Sul, stop,” he gasps, and since Sul is likely to look at him again soon enough, he adjusts his expression to the one Nerevar would be wearing. “I-I’ll— and I want to… to have you,” he adds, though he’s nowhere near his climax in truth.

 “S-Sul, stop,” Nerevar gasps, and Sul stops, afraid he’s done something wrong. “I-I’ll-and I want to… to have you,” Nerevar whispers, and the worry in his chest is replaced with an odd elation. He untangles himself from Nerevar long enough to look up, and the look on Nerevar’s face is something truly beautiful to behold.  _Ayem_ , a tiny, treacherous voice in the back of his head hisses venomously, but he ignores it. He reaches up, but his hand stops a scant inch from Nerevar’s cheek, and he’s afraid that if he actually touches Nerevar that look will vanish. He’s always been lousy at initiative, anyways.

 His hand drops, and he looks down again, feeling acutely the trickle of sweat down his back, the beginnings of muscle pangs from forcing himself to hold his position, the ache of stretched lips and overworked jaws. The saliva on his jaws feels cold and sticky-slimy, and he can taste a strange saltiness on his tongue, left by pulling out. He can feel the heat of Nerevar’s body, though, and tries his best to match it.   He drags his gaze upwards until he’s staring at Nerevar’s chest, aware he must look a mess. “What… what do you want me to do?” 

 

 Nerevayem feels a deep flash of heat low in his belly the instant Sul looks up, but he manages not to change his expression, keeping his reaction restricted to his eyes hooding slightly. Sul is already a wreck, and his eyes are so bright with devotion that Nerevayem knows he’s truly imagining it to be Nerevar in front of him. The thought sends a shiver of pure delight down his spine. He runs his fingers through Sul’s hair slowly, taking a few moments to think over his question.

 He thinks of all the ways he could take Sul, all of the ways he could have him — the possibilities are so many and each image so tempting that it’s difficult to think about it rationally. He needs to preserve the fantasy, feed its flames so that Sul doesn’t realize what he’s doing again and change his mind. He can’t do anything Nerevar wouldn’t reasonably do. It nullifies most of the more interesting options, but the thought of having Sul at all is still quite appealing. His innocence, his devotion is burning so bright in his eyes. The thought of taking someone who should, by all rights, be Nerevar’s — someone so loyal, so devoted to him — for himself, taking him apart piece by piece and putting him back together into something new… it’s entirely too appealing, and sends another flash of heat through him. 

 Instead he reaches down to touch Sul’s forehead gently, molding his expression into the radiant one Nerevar would be wearing.

 “Come to bed with me,” he whispers, meek but wanting, and reaches down to help Sul up out of his kneeling position. He knows the boy’s knees and jaw will be aching, and the thought sends another flash of dark desire through his body and mind, sending possibilities spiraling through his mind once again. He’s going to wreck Sul, make him into something unrecognizable and new, and it’s going to be beautiful. But before he can get too caught up in his plans, he gently tugs Sul against him and gives him a sweet, slow kiss, something quintessentially Nerevar.

 

 Sul can’t quite read the look Nerevar gives him, but he trusts Nerevar, more than he would trust himself. He leans into Nerevar’s kiss, responding eagerly. The thought that Nerevar wants him - him, silly, defective him - is one he can barely wrap his head around, but wants to keep forever. He and Nerevar somehow end up on the bed, cradled by layers of tissue-thin sheets dyed in a dozen iridescent colors. The softness of the bed is a relief, and he relaxes as Nerevar traces inquisitive hands down his chest. 

 “M-m’lord,” he murmurs, his tongue unexpectedly clumsy. “Anything. Please.” He would beg.  _Ancestors_ , he would do more than just beg if it meant seeing that smile on Nerevar’s face again. He blinked and focused on the brilliant amber of Nerevar’s eyes as his face slid into view, bright against the dark ceiling. He wants to cradle Nerevar’s face in his hands and whisper quiet platitudes into his ear, reaffirm Nerevar’s acceptance of his devotion, but his body refuses to listen. As if reading his mind, Nerevar scooped him into a sort of half-hug, sheets and all. 

 “You were the only loyal one, in the end,” Nerevar whispers. Sul lets Nerevar cradle him, feeling Nerevar hot and heavy against his thigh. 

 He’d sworn an oath. He remembers it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. 

  _He stood in the middle of the camp. Beside him, Nirai shifted restlessly. “They aren’t coming,” she suggested. “We were lied to.”_

_He disagreed. He’d heard about this Hortator, this Indoril Nerevar. “Perhaps they were delayed,” he suggested, hoping his first major decision as clan head wouldn’t be his last. “The passes are treacherous this time of year.”_

_As if on cue, one of the scouts on lookout ran up. “They come,” he cried. Sul refrained from giving his clan’s wise woman a triumphant look. It would be unseemly._

_These non-Velothi were a strange lot. They wore heavy, leathery armor unsuited for the unique weather of northern Vvardenfell, cold and hot by shifts. Their breastplates were gilded and inlaid with more wealth than Urshilaku Clan could afford. Their faces were hidden behind closed, empty masks. Sul eyed the heavy, barbed heads of their spears and was suddenly uncertain of his agreement. He had no doubt these strange Chimer could wreak havoc on Urshilaku before they were taken down._

_The three that followed, however, were as different from their honor guard as their honor guard was to the Ashlanders. Sul saw white robes and a secretive, not-quite-male face before his attention was caught up by the figure in the middle. The figure turned from his companion and gave Sul a warm, brilliant smile, and Sul knew he’d follow this Indoril Nerevar until his dying breath and beyond._

 “Don’t fall asleep,” Nerevar whispers in his ear, and Sul shakes himself out of his reverie. 

“I was remembering,” he confesses, pulling Nerevar back down with him. “The first time we met. I knew, even then, that I was yours.” The words sound right, coming out of his mouth, the way very few things did. Nerevar gifts him with a dazzling smile and another kiss. 

 Nonetheless, Sul feels the beginnings of shame and worry uncurl in his belly as Nerevar continues his way down Sul’s body. He makes a choked mewling noise as Nerevar touches him, almost reverently, before running elegant fingers along the insides of his thighs in a way that makes Sul’s toes curl involuntarily. 

 He wants to speak up. He really does, but who would want to lay with him after learning the truth? He keeps his mouth shut. 

 Nerevar, however, seems perturbed when Sul doesn’t respond to his touches, and he gives Sul another one of those not-quite-readable looks. The thought of Nerevar disapproving is worse than the thought of Nerevar finding him defective, because he’s always been that way and everyone else sees it the same way, so why not? 

 “A-ah, Nerevar,” he stammers, almost afraid to speak. “I-I can’t.” Nerevar stops, and Sul’s mouth unhitches itself from his brain and runs with it. “I-I mean, it’s my fault, not yours. Please. You’re perfect. I’m not.” He wants to curl up in a hole somewhere and cry, he wants the bed to swallow him up so he doesn’t have to face Nerevar this way. “Please don’t hate me. I literally can’t. I-it’s just the way my body was made. I love you, I really do, and I want to and I would do anything for you, and believe me, I’m trying but my body won’t - can’t -” To his eternal shame, he bursts into tears. 

 

Ayem finds it difficult to be patient, to take things at the pace they need to be taken. He has something so frail in his hand and his instinct is to crush it into a fine powder, but this fragile kind of beauty needs to be obliterated in a different, more precise way. Nothing so brutish, nothing so fast. It has to be slow, painstakingly slow, and it has to be precise.

It’s almost too easy. He can feel the fine threads of Sul’s mind and knows him to be completely immersed inside of his fantasy. Now only the largest break of character would be noticeable, and even then he doubts if Sul would be willing to drag himself out of the feverdream his mind has constructed.

 He trails touches, feather-light and yet a measure more sure than Nerevar’s touches (he knows exactly what Sul wants, what he expects - he can see it in his face, hear it in his needy little cries) down Sul’s body. Each little shiver, each little gasp is building up to something grander; every reaction adds yet another mote of color to the masterpiece Ayem is so carefully constructing. As he dances his fingertips across Sul’s inner thighs, dragging desperate little mewls from the man’s throat, he notices that Sul does not seem to be getting aroused. He knows the sounds Sul keeps making would suggest he is rather overwhelmed, and finds it odd. He almost opens his mouth to ask, but Sul takes the lead - seeing Nerevar’s face overlaid over his own, his mind making up for the discrepancies on its own - and tells him everything. 

Ayem cannot stop his eyes from widening at the confession and the tears that immediately follow, but in the end that reaction works to his advantage. All he has to do is cant his eyebrows up slightly and tense just the right muscles to make his eyes go wet, and he is Nerevar in the flesh - he is, for a moment, Nerevarine - he is perfect. Even as he pauses the proper amount, his mind is racing with deliciously bright and sinful possibilities once again. His every nerve feels alight with excitement now: this is something more than sex. It has just become a game, a game in which he is playing against an opponent who is blinded, in the dark, unaware of the rules, and yet the opponent that still presents a challenge. Prey. Before the dark fist around Ayem’s heart can squeeze too hard, he lets Nerevar take hold of his tongue.

 “S-Sul, shhhh,” he hushes, reaching up to take hold of Sul’s face in his hands gently. He strokes the pads of his thumbs over the man’s face, wiping away the tears tracking their way down his cheeks. He smears the wetness away, pauses, then brings him into a close embrace, cradling him in comfort.

 “That… that doesn’t matter to me,” he murmurs, and while his face is pressed against Sul’s neck, he is free to let his eyes remain as wide as he wishes. His pulse is jumping in his throat, and if he squeezes Sul just a little bit tighter than Nerevar would, he won’t notice. “None of that matters,” he continues, because now is when Nerevar would begin to babble. “Not to me. I love you,” he whispers, the words falling so easily from his lips, and leans back, because this is the final nail into the coffin, this is crucial. He is wearing Nerevar’s face now; he is well familiar with the ardent look Nerevar would have, the way his eyes are still shining with tears and his face is flushed bright with want and shame. “I want you. No matter … no matter what,” he tells him with that same idealistic tone he would have if he were making a speech, and then he cants his eyebrows up a little bit more, widens his eyes just a fraction, lets his lips pull down one little bit. “B-but… do you really want me to…?” he asks, his gaze dipping, his teeth chewing at his lip.

 Ayem is still lying half across Sul, and he’s harder than before, pulsing against the man’s thigh. He knows this is Nerevar - meek even in the face of arousal. He also knows that should Sul not take the bait, he wouldn’t be able to back down like Nerevar would. He has to have Sul, and it matters little to him which path the man chooses to take. He already has his fingers inside of Sul’s mind, gently twined around threads of thought. All that devotion is focused on him, and Ayem knows that later - when this is all over - Sul will realize that. The fall, he thinks, will be spectacular. Ayem teeters on the edge of patience and feels that dark grip of desire squeeze tighter around his heart, but he does not move, just gazes anxiously at Sul, eyes wet and cheeks flushed.

 

When Nerevar doesn’t reject him, Sul wonders if he’s dreaming. This can’t be real. It’s better than real. If this is a dream, Sul doesn’t want to wake from it. Nerevar wouldn’t lie to him; Nerevar doesn’t lie to him. He can feel Nerevar’s acceptance against him. He reaches down and touches Nerevar gently, wondering at this new twist. Nerevar is hot and heavy in his hands, and dried spit flakes off under his fingers. 

 “Thank you,” he whispers, curling up against the comforting warmth of Nerevar’s chest, unwilling to let go. He knows Nerevar won’t disappear if he lets go, but a tiny part of him has been disappointed for too long. “Thank you.” 

Nerevar says nothing, only draws him into a slow kiss that promises as much as it did before Sul dragged out his embarrassing revelation. Sul hasn’t realized how much this simple act of acceptance means to him; he wraps his arms around Nerevar and hugs him close to himself, a lover too precious and beautiful to let go of. 

Nerevar pushes against him urgently, and Sul realizes he’s probably been snuggling too long. He draws Nerevar back down into the sheets, again, and very deliberately opens his legs. Nerevar settles between them like he was meant to fit there, no awkward jostling of knees and ankles, no fumbling at the sheets to keep himself from falling over. He is so perfect that Sul wonders for a second if he’s actually some god or daedric prince come in disguise. Nerevar leans forward and pins Sul to the bed, and all Sul can think of is delight in the fact that nothing will stop him and Nerevar. He wants this, he needs this like nothing else he’s ever needed before. 

“I’m yours,” he murmurs, Nerevar’s hair loose against his face and shining like a red river, an oath from long ago. I will protect and serve, and obey you in all things. ”I won’t let anyone come between us. Not even Ayem.” 

 

Ayem almost wants to laugh at how eagerly Sul opens his legs, how trustingly he lets Ayem settle in between his thighs. He stifles the urge without showing any reaction, but again the urge rises at Sul’s feverishly murmured words. He’s lying pressed against the man, and merely huffs out a hot breath against his neck, something easily taken as a gasp of desire rather than the beginnings of a laugh. He tips his head to the side just slightly, the edges of his hair brushing against Sul’s collarbone just as Ayem brushes his lips against the man’s neck, feeling the pulse jumping frantically just beneath the skin.

“Nobody,” he affirms in a whisper, scraping his teeth over where Sul’s blood is rushing just beneath the surface. “ _Nobody_  shares what we do, Sul,” he adds, and presses a soft kiss to the boy’s neck. It’s true. Nobody shares what Sul and Ayem now share, and the fact that Sul is still blissfully ignorant of what’s really going on makes Ayem’s blood heat, singing in his veins. “Nobody can come between us,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across Sul’s neck and up to his jaw. Nobody will be able to come between them, not really. Sul will always be tainted now; he’ll have Ayem’s handprint on him, Ayem’s hand wrapped tight around his heart. Squeeze a little and…

Ayem moves slowly, reaching down to spread one of Sul’s legs open more and dancing his fingers up to his inner thigh. Nerevar would be patient, careful — once he realized that things needed to be taken slowly sometimes — and Ayem plans to be the same way. Their motives are once again much different. Nerevar would prepare his partner as much as he could out of love, deep love and an unwillingness to bring pain to his lover. Ayem is going to prepare Sul painstakingly slow not out of such noble notions, but because it will match Nerevar and it will push the boy a little bit higher up on the cliff Ayem has been leading him to. He presses his fingers to Sul, gently, slowly working a finger inside of him. His fingers are slick with oils, but before Sul can even begin to imagine to question where that came from, Ayem begins to whisper against his neck, his jaw, into his ear. He murmurs a steady litany of encouragement and endearments, praise and half-jumbled compliments, soft declarations of love mixed in with urgent gasps and moans. He works his fingers deeper in, quite intent on giving Sul something no one else is going to be able to. 

 He traces his power against Sul gently, as insidious and slow as vines creeping along in the undergrowth. He does not know the exact manner of Sul’s physiology, but he knows enough to be able to spin threads of pleasure inside Sul’s body. He will not do so much so as to reverse the man’s interesting predicament, but he will do enough so that he will have Sul mewling in genuine pleasure and not just an emotional high. He wants to have the boy underneath him, spread out around him, shaking and squirming and experiencing something more pleasurable than he ever has before. He wants Sul to think it’s Nerevar, to  _know_  it is except with the tiniest shred of rationality left to his name, and he wants to watch how he crumbles when he finally, finally realizes - after it’s all over, maybe a few days later, even - that it wasn’t. That it is Ayem giving him this pleasure.

He spreads his fingers deeper inside of Sul and smiles against the skin of his neck, ignoring his own erection all the while. He is patient; this amount of waiting is nothing compared to what he has often put himself through, and though he wants him badly now he has to make things perfect. He murmurs yet another phrase of adoration and sucks on Sul’s neck as he twists his fingers inside of him. He can feel Sul’s heartbeat hammering inside of his ribcage, a frantic bird trapped inside of a cage. Part of Ayem wants to free that bird, but he knows the longer it thrashes and hammers itself against its confinements, the more bruised it will be, the more broken its wings will be. It will be all the more entertaining to watch that bird try to fly, and the thought makes Ayem shiver in anticipation.

 

A lack of willing partners means Sul is surprised when Nerevar uses his fingers. He’s glad Nerevar knows what he’s doing, because he’s been going off guesswork and experimentation and now he’s entirely out of ideas. He’s heard Nirai describe her encounters to admiring suitors, but she never mentioned how different it was for males. He supposes she never had a need to. 

This sensation of prodding fingers is strange and not entirely unpleasant. Nerevar settles into a slow, easy rhythm, his fingers covered with something warm and oily that keeps them from chafing. Sul wonders where the lubricant came from and tries to relax muscles clenched in anticipation as Nerevar scissors his fingers outwards. Sul would have expected his nerves to go numb, or at least ache, but the feeling intensifies instead. That, with the soft puffs of Nerevar’s breath and the encouragement he whispers in Sul’s ear, create a soft, clenched warmth in Sul’s belly. 

Nerevar twists his fingers  _just so,_   _something_. For a moment his world sings, and a visceral pleasure grips his body. His mind is filled with the idea of  _do it again, do it again_. He wonders if this is what he’s been missing out on and gains a flash of understanding into the rightfully sex-obsessed world of Nirn. 

Nerevar chuckles and twists his fingers again. This time Sul can’t help but squeal. His hips move of their own accord and lift themselves off Nerevar before jerking back down again, barely missing Nerevar’s fingers on the way down. 

“Aaagh,” he says, his heart hammering in his chest. He’s pretty sure “aaagh” isn’t a word, but Nerevar knows him well enough to understand his intent. 

He’s obviously not supposed to wiggle himself around while Nerevar is tending to him, because when Nerevar resumes his ministrations after sharing the low, rich laugh he gives when delighted, he keeps his other hand on Sul’s hip, pinning him down. 

Sul lays there as Nerevar works on him, glad his Lord has taken command of the situation. His pleasure mounts, and he realizes he is shaking with the effort of not twisting himself around Nerevar and his wonderful, skillful fingers. His hands have clenched themselves around Nerevar’s bedsheets by the time Nerevar decides he’s done. Nerevar patiently untangles Sul before picking him up like a child and settling him slowly on his lap. 

The men at Urshilaku Camp used to call it “impalement”, and Sul would sometimes stumble upon them rutting in the small, covered space behind the guar pens, but this doesn’t feel like that. Nerevar  _is_  inside him, but this feels like tendrils of light that twine through his body, setting his nerves afire with an intensity he has never felt before. He doesn’t protest when Nerevar starts to slide his hips up and down. 

 

Ayem’s breath catches for a moment when he is fully seated inside of Sul. He had noticed it when he was preparing Sul, but it is entirely different to experience it firsthand. Sul is extremely tight around him, squeezing him like a vice, and Ayem feels himself shudder in genuine pleasure borne of the act itself, and not its implications. He remains still for a moment, letting out a low hiss that would be uncharacteristic of Nerevar, but he doesn’t expect Sul will notice anything so small. He only pauses for a moment before he begins to move, pulling Sul down against him and lifting him back up. The boy is too inexperienced and stunned to do much by himself, but Ayem really doesn’t mind. Ayem’s intoxicated by this once again, and that same dark desire is spreading through his body, making him want to sink into Sul and own him from the inside out, make him into something for his own use, his own purposes. He swallows convulsively and dips his head to kiss at Sul’s neck, letting Nerevar take his tongue and whisper words of adoration and stunned pleasure, letting low, delighted cries spill from his throat where he would normally have been silent or at least making much more subdued noises. 

He goes slowly, letting Nerevar speak through every movement of his hips, every press deeper into Sul. He is Nerevar through the way he wraps his arms around Sul’s waist to hold him close as they rock against each other, and he is Nerevar in the way he lifts his head to stare at Sul with bright eyes and kiss him. He is Nerevar in the way he pauses while they kiss, still embedded deep inside of Sul. He gives Sul as much of Nerevar as he possibly can without actually being Nerevar, and when the kiss ends they’re both breathless, albeit for very different reasons. 

At this point Ayem feels like Sul is reasonably prepared for things to move more away from what he would expect from Nerevar and more into what he wants from Nerevar. He shifts them slowly, smoothly, with much more grace than Nerevar would have, and pins Sul back down against the bed without so much as slipping out of him. He covers Sul’s body with his own, bigger one, and slips his arms beneath the boy’s legs to wrap them around his waist. He is wearing a delighted smile on his face the entire time, gazing at Sul as if he is the most beautiful, precious thing in all the realms, and for a few moments Ayem honestly believes he is. Here is a fragile little bird in between his palms, and it sings so sweetly for him, but Ayem likes to break beautiful things almost more than he likes to admire them. When he has Sul situated and spread out beneath him just like he wants him to be, he leans down - in the process pushing his length deeper into Sul, angling to hit the spot he likes best, the one that Ayem’s power is focused on to bring him the most pleasure - and gives Sul a slow, open kiss, all heat and passion and desire.

“You’re mine,” he whispers to Sul, and this is part Nerevar, but it’s more Ayem. His tone matches Nerevar’s, so the deception will hold, but these are no longer Nerevar’s words. “ _Mine_ , Sul.” He thrusts into Sul, harder than before, moving his hands to cover Sul’s hips - he has only just noticed how he nearly dwarfs the man beneath him, and it makes his head swim with that same dangerous want - and squeeze, pulling him closer into every thrust. “Mine. So loyal. So beautiful,” he gasps.

 

Nerevar is everywhere. He is planes of smooth muscle rippling in the curve between Sul’s legs. He is warm, soft skin mere inches from Sul’s stomach. He is a pair of strong legs bracing them against the bed. He is long, dark red hair slowly absorbing the sweat from Sul’s face and chest. He is soft, ecstatic cries and fierce acknowledgement in the darkness, a pair of questing lips at the best times. Sul thinks he can catch the scent of Nerevar’s arousal if he tries hard enough, but mostly he’s too busy making tiny noises with his mouth to take a deep enough breath to smell anything. 

Sul focuses on the look on Nerevar’s face. It brings him nearly as much pleasure to see Nerevar so unguarded and happy as it does riding him, but in a less mind-numbingly fuzzy way. He quickly learns to anticipate and follow the guiding pressure of Nerevar’s hand, and the joy he always feels at obeying Nerevar seems to amplify with each thrust. Nerevar removes his hands from Sul’s waist and runs them up Sul’s torso until the rough calluses on his thumbs from too much spearwork tease gently at small, peaked nipples. Sul does his best to bite back another cry and begins ramming himself against Nerevar with renewed vigor. His hands scrabble desperately at Nerevar’s back, unknowingly leaving deep red welts that heal almost as fast as they are formed. In response, Nerevar grasps Sul’s wrists and pins them together over his head with one large hand. 

Sul makes a curious noise in the back of his throat and wonders what else Nerevar has in store. Nerevar nips at the skin of his neck, hard enough to sting but not enough to draw blood, and slowly sucks until the pain is gone. It will probably bruise in the morning. Nerevar kisses him again, and Sul feels the sting of cold air on drying skin enough to think,  _I’m yours_. He doesn’t say so, but Nerevar knows. 

Nerevar’s free hand moves to where Sul’s… equipment… is bouncing limply with each stroke. He grasps it firmly and begins stroking slowly and softly, as if Sul could become aroused by the sheer force of Nerevar’s will. Sul likes to imagine that he does, even if only a little bit. 

Nerevar moves faster now, as if anticipating something, and Sul feels the jolts of pleasure run through his body until it is all too much and the world grays out and his hearing fades. The world takes on a surreal quality, and he feels as light as he imagines the wind must be. Nerevar’s face looms overhead, and he’s speaking, but Sul can’t quite catch his words in his dazed state. All too soon, his consciousness filters back to normal, and the warmth in his belly turns into a heated pressure that swiftly becomes unbearable. He’s torn between wanting it to end and knowing Nerevar still hasn’t finished, and in the moment between doubts Nerevar leans in and gives him a quiet, considerate kiss and doesn’t stop thrusting. 

 

Ayem wasn’t expecting this when he decided to take Sul into his bed, but he’s rather pleased with the entire situation. He has already wrung Sul dry, taken everything someone could reasonably expect to take. And Sul is a wreck beneath him, trembling and wet-eyed and letting out soft, mewling cries with each movement of Ayem’s hips, but none of that is enough. He’s fractured but not quite broken yet, and Ayem is determined to get what he wants.

He streams his power against Sul a little bit further, digging in a little bit deeper. There always seems to be one little last drop of water left in the wrung-out cloth, so he squeezes tighter and bows his body over Sul’s, gripping his wrist painfully tight. It’s tighter than Nerevar would ever squeeze, and Ayem knows that with his strength magnified by godhood, it will leave dark, deep bruises. The ache will last, reminding Sul of Ayem each time it twinges. Ayem begins to smile, his power now deep inside of Sul and twisting his senses to feel more pleasure, more, and brighter with each movement. He cages Sul in by bracing his other arm on the pillows near Sul’s head, leaning in close enough that their breath mingles with every gasp. He forces himself in deeper with each thrust, his pace relentless, merciless, and lets his face twist into a smile that lacks Nerevar’s radiant warmth. His eyelids lower and he feels the fist around his heart squeeze, sending pleasure rushing through every part of him. He is still leading Sul up that cliff, hand in hand, the fragile little mortal wrapped around his little finger. He will take the utmost delight in taking him to its apex and watching him jump of his own free will, and not because he was forced. He bites his lip and stifles a groan, his eyes wide and dark as he takes in the expression on Sul’s face. 

“You,” he hisses, his voice containing just the slightest bit of Nerevar just so it teases at the edges of Sul’s conciousness, sending him spiralling between what’s real and what’s fantasy. “Are,” he adds, and punctuates it with another sharp thrust, too deep, and a squeeze around Sul’s wrist. “Mine,” he snaps, and tilts his head down to bite Sul’s neck once again, intent on claiming every part of him.

 

This time, Nerevar truly bites him. This is no love-nip. Sul feels skin tear and nerves sing with pain and blood ooze out of broken vessels. He reminds himself that this is Nerevar, and merely bares his throat so Nerevar can reach his wound easily, but this seems wrong. Ragged edges of suppressed memories filter back through his mind. Something about Ayem. But Ayem isn’t here… is she? He ignores the filter of reality and turns his mind inward. 

“Nerevar,” he whispers. He deserves this, he really does, because if he’d been able to function like normal Nerevar wouldn’t have had to baby him through everything. He refuses to be a burden, a victim to be pitied. He lets Nerevar fuck him, his mind wandering back to when they’d gone out together and changed the world. 

_“You are serious?” Sul asks. Nerevar gives him an uncertain look, but refuses to back down. “The Dwemer will eat us alive! Look what they did to the Falmer!”_

_“They are also our only chance of success,” Nerevar refutes quietly. “Without their aid the Nords will win. And I hear their king, Dumac, holds a fascination with Chimeri culture.”_

_SUl sighs. Nerevar can be completely intractable when he wants to be. Nerevar knows Sul is unconvinced, and continues. “Either we approach them now as friends and allies, or we approach them in a few centuries as refugees and supplicants. I know which I’d rather be.”_

_Sul knows Nerevar is right, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think Nerevar is going to get them all killed or worse with his complicated, ridiculous plans. He listens with half an ear as Nerevar begins trying to recall everything he ever learned about the Dwemer as he begins planning an escape route for himself and for Urshilaku clan when this inevitably falls apart._

_Three months later, the Dwemer and the Chimer ally against the Nords, and Resdayn is formed. Sul decides he can trust Nerevar’s plans, after all._

Sul is tired, bone tired. He’s aching from exertion and covered in a sticky layer of sweat. Even the sensations of his body seem distant now, afterimages and echoes of the real thing. By now it’s probably almost morning, given the time it took him to get here, and he really should leave and get back to Urshilaku camp to start making breakfast for Nerevar, just as soon as he summons up the willpower to remember where he’d anchored his recall spell and how many clothes he’ll need to put on before he can travel. He forgot to tuck Nerevar in last night and hopes Nerevar hasn’t gone off wandering again. Nerevar makes a low moan as he thrusts, and Sul sees his reality fracture into the truth, and suddenly Nerevar is Ayem, and Ayem is in him, and all over him, and touching him where he doesn’t want to be touched,  _ancestors help me,_  and he can’t get away and she smiles at him and he is  _terrified_  of her. 

“You know it’s rude to leave your partner hanging,” Ayem purrs, her - no,  _his_ , somehow - nails digging into the skin between Sul’s ribs. The pain is exquisite, and his mind loses track of possibilities and consequences and reactions. How did he get into this situation? He can’t come up with an answer that makes sense, and that knowledge only fuels his fear. “What would Nerevar think?” 

At this point, Sul just wants to be gone, and somewhere where he can claw Almalexia off of him, out of him, if he can. But Ayem knows him too well, given the circumstances of his last escape from her, and with a thought he is helpless, lying under her as she reams into him. He closes his eyes, and tries to remember the dream, but it does not return. 

A laugh bubbles low in Ayem’s throat when Sul’s mind can no longer reconcile the differences between Ayem and Nerevar, and he no longer needs to restrain it. He slips a hand down to pull one of Sul’s legs wider, driving himself in deeper and feeling his body nearly ache with the pleasure of having what he wants right in front of him. His eyes are wide and bright, black beginning to creep in at the edges, and entirely Ayem. There is no shred of Nerevar left in his demeanor, not yet, not until he wants there to be. He wonders how difficult it will be for Sul to hold on to the fantasy this time, how fragile his mind must be now. He wonders how much more it will take to shatter.

Ayem holds Sul’s hips, too tightly, and pulls him down into the thrusts, using a glimmer of power to gently wind Sul’s wrists together like his own hands had been doing previously. He doesn’t want Sul to try fighting if his mind bucks off the fantasy once again, not when he’s having this much fun. He tips his head down and brushes his lips against Sul’s ear, nipping, then biting, then whispering into his ear.

“You look just like him right now,” he murmurs, lips curling into a devious smirk. “So overwhelmed. So desperate.  _Needy_.” He gasps, then thrusts into Sul once again, not even close to his peak, but still alight with delicious, twisted pleasure. “So - ahh -  _unwilling_  to face the truth,” he murmurs, licking a long, hot line across Sul’s ear, along the harsh bites he’s placed there. 

 

The fantasy nearly slips when Ayem whispers in his ears, but he catches himself in time. If all else fails, he supposes he can pretend Nerevar is channeling his wife, a spicy bit of roleplay for the both of them. 

He tries to say Ayem’s name, but it comes out as “Nerevar!” He remembers the progression of arousal from earlier, but Nerevar-Ayem chooses to maintain a steady pace, and it almost drives Sul mad, knowing he could be feeling so much more and denied all that. “Nerevar, please,” he whispers. Nerevar smells like Ayem now, which is wrong, but he doesn’t care. “Harder.” 

Ayem whispers in his ear, “No.” 

Sul tries wiggling around for better leverage, and Nerevar presses on new bruises to stop him. Sul is caught in the interplay between pain and pleasure, breathless and awaiting Nerevar’s next move. 

” _No_ ,” Ayem repeats, voice sharp and entirely his. This is driving him wild, more than anything Sul is doing, and he catches his breath in his chest again. He drives himself in slowly, grinding deep, and places another bite under Sul’s jaw. His teeth are sharp now, like they ought to be, and he tastes blood well up from the wound. He laps it up until it’s no longer beading to the surface, and then moves. He doesn’t give Sul an opportunity to move or protest. He pulls out far too quickly, knowing how uncomfortable it will be, and flips him over in one swift move. He’s on him against in an instant, in him once again in another. The man’s wrists are still bound by Ayem’s power, and he doubts he’ll realize that fact until it’s far too late.

“Do you really think this would happen?” Ayem asks him, taking hold of his hips once again, pulling him back to where he wants him to be. The pleasure is just as much as before, but Ayem has gone far longer in bed, spear or no spear. This is nothing. This is a game. He smiles and leans in closer, pressing his lips to Sul’s neck in a mockery of affection. “That any of this could be real?” he adds, punctuating the words with another thrust. “That your - mm -  _Lord_ would have you like this?”

 

Sul finds himself facedown on the bed, and he tries to use his arms to prop himself up, but they’re trapped above his head. Ayem is speaking to him again, but Sul doesn’t want to listen, so he buries his head into the sheets and his mind in Nerevar’s actions. Nerevar leans forward and lips brush the back of Sul’s neck. He flinches involuntarily, expecting another bite, but Nerevar only kisses him gently. 

Ayem speaks again, in low, treacherous words, and he tries to shut out the sound of that and imagine Nerevar’s gentle encouragements. He screws his eyes shut, ignoring the questions because they are legitimate ones but he’s afraid that if he thinks about it too deeply the dream will end and he’ll be left alone with Ayem again. “Nerevar,” he says, a reminder for himself as much as it is a request for his partner. “Please. Just fuck me.” 

Ayem chuckles lowly against Sul’s skin, still keeping the pace tortuously slow. He doesn’t have Sul quite as broken as he wants, but he still has the bird within in his palm, and he intends to do what he likes with it. Immediately he gentles his movements, pitches his voice the slightest bit higher (odd, that he should be larger, that his voice should be deeper than Nerevar’s) and traces his hands over Sul’s skin so gently.

“A-ah, Sul,” he nearly whines, suddenly so shy and overcome by pleasure that he’s not very good at  _all._ If Sul wants Nerevar, then he’ll get him. Nerevar-Ayem bends over Sul and presses reverent kisses against his skin, barely moving now, too overcome by his feelings to do much else. “You feel so good,” he whispers, but even that would make Nerevar nearly clam up with shyness, so he trembles lightly and bites his lip, letting Sul feel that tremor, curious to see how the man is going to react now. He’s so desperate to hold on to his fantasy that Ayem won’t be surprised if Sul takes this Nerevar, though too close to reality, and runs with it.

 

Suddenly, Ayem is entirely Nerevar, and Sul welcomes the reprieve. Nerevar-Ayem he can and does fear, but the memory of Nerevar is still one of gentleness and consideration. As strange and messed up as this is, he’s almost afraid it will end, because he’s not sure how he can go back and look Nerevar in the eye and pretend this never happened. 

Nerevar, of course, is more delicate and sensitive than Ayem ever was. Sul has learned to read questions in the tilt of Nerevar’s head, to read entire volumes of meaning in quick, subconscious gestures and quiet, shy noises. This Nerevar is giving out an entirely new set of signals, however, and Sul decides to guess his Lord’s intent. He briefly considers turning over again, but he’s not sure how he can do that without having Nerevar pull out, and his memories of the previous time are confused. In any case, he doesn’t want to be facing Nerevar when Nerevar becomes Ayem again. 

Nerevar’s hand is resting next to Sul’s head, so Sul takes Nerevar’s fingers into his mouth and sucks gently. The pleasure in Nerevar’s gasp reminds him of how Nerevar rode him earlier, and he focuses on sliding himself up and down, trying to gauge by ear which position to use and which pace to set. His own pleasure can wait. Nerevar always comes first. 

Ayem shudders when Sul begins to move, letting the man lave his tongue over his fingers. It’s not that it’s very good, but it’s the fact that Sul is so quick to sink himself into fantasy, so quick to deny reality. He lets Sul have his fun with Nerevar for a little while longer, barely moving himself but letting the man writhe underneath him so eagerly as if it really was Nerevar behind him, inside of him, finding the entire situation delightfully entertaining. He wants Sul, wants to watch him walk away after this and then snatch him right back up with honeyed whispers and promises of keeping him from betraying Nerevar, and the thought is so beautifully twisted that Ayem’s breath catches again.

He lets Sul nearly wear himself out trying to bring Nerevar to orgasm, lets the man writhe and wriggle under him, giving the proper Nerevar reaction whenever he does something that’s actually good. Nerevar would never last anywhere near this long, but Ayem’s not going to mercy Sul, not really. After a while Ayem lets Nerevar speak through his body and hold Sul close, barely rocking his hips into him, whispering words of affection and praise and adoration. He turns Sul slowly so that they’re face to face again, still fully Nerevar in expression and touch and voice. He murmurs to him, strokes his cheek and hair and holds him close, so that they’re pressed completely against one another, every part of them touching, still connected. 

And while he’s cupping Sul’s cheek and gazing at him with eyes bright with Nerevar, Ayem slowly begins to smile. It isn’t a Nerevar smile. Slowly Nerevar begins to melt away, replaced entirely and undeniably with Ayem, though the masculine version of Ayem. He has one arm hooked tight around Sul’s waist to keep him close, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of his hip, scoring his skin and making blood well up. He leans closer, ghosting his lips over Sul’s own and smiling at him, that dark smile of Ayem’s with none of the warmth of Nerevar’s.

“So loyal, so trusting,” he whispers, gripping Sul a little bit tighter. “So trusting of  _me._ Nerevar was the same way,” he murmurs, his eyes bright as he stares at Sul. 

 

Sul can’t help but stare at Ayem’s face. Her smile is darker, more frightening than he remembers. He can’t help but wonder if Nerevar felt the same way, once. And that was their mistake; they trusted her long enough for her to fuck things up. Literally, in his case. 

“Shut up about Nerevar,” he whispers, trying to wiggle away from the oppressive heat of Ayem’s body. Ayem holds him fast easily, a god amused by the meaningless struggles of mortals. Sul’s arms flail uselessly, and in desperation he bites Ayem. 

His teeth slip off impenetrable skin, leaving nothing but thin trails of saliva. Ayem laughs, a low, rich sound, and bites Sul back. This bite is deep, and hard, and Sul screams as teeth scrape his collarbone. The world goes gray with pain, but the pleasure in his belly flares triumphantly and any thoughts of resistance collapse in the aftermath. He curls into Ayem’s body, wrapping his arms around Ayem until he’s hugging Ayem like a madman. He has the sneaking suspicion that Ayem influences his ability to feel pleasure, because he’s not the type of person who finds joy in pain. 

With his face buried in Ayem’s chest he can’t see the look on Ayem’s face, but it’s Nerevar’s voice that whispers gently into his ear. “Will you behave, Sul? For me?” 

A part of him panics at the thought of Ayem doing this or anything to or going anywhere near Nerevar, so he nods carefully. 

Ayem takes his time with Sul, licking at his newest bite until it stops bleeding and the flesh knits back together. The healing leaves behind pale scars and ensures Sul will likely never wear anything with a low neckline again. 

Sul feels like a passenger in his own body, mechanically responding to Ayem’s directions and wishing Nerevar would reappear and drive Ayem off and make everything better, and afraid Nerevar might see him like this because this feels like a betrayal of everything he’s ever worked for. Or worse, if Nerevar would take Ayem’s side like he did all those centuries ago and let Ayem continue. The thought that Ayem might spare him and do this to Nerevar instead is a wrong one, and he strives to erase it from his mind lest Ayem get ideas. 

 

Ayem is triumphant at this point, and quite happy to take Sul apart with his hands and the movements of his hips. He’s sunk deep into Sul now, left his mark on him inside and out to the point where Ayem is utterly convinced that Sul is his, now and for forever. He lets out a dark laugh when he feels the path Sul’s mind is tracing and slams into him particularly hard, fucking him into the bed beneath them, merciless. His hands are everywhere on Sul, feeling and touching and claiming, marking, scoring him with little scratches and bites and bruises. 

“You  _are_  betraying your lord,” he whispers to Sul, one hand holding his already bruised hip too tightly and one slowly making its way up the man’s marked chest. “He still loves me,” he murmurs, and his fingers stroke at Sul’s neck. He is still taking Sul even now, his thrusts alternating between too brutal and too slow, and knows that Sul will enjoy every bit of it. “He will imagine you dishonored me,” he continues, his eyes hooding in desire as he slowly puts his fingers around Sul’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds him in place as he fucks him too hard, too fast, and smiles a sharp smile down at him. “That betrayal will cut deep,” he whispers. “Deeper than you can imagine. Perhaps he will act like things are all right,” he continues, his voice lowering and becoming darker as his desire builds. He begins to wrap his fingers around Sul’s throat tighter the longer he speaks, keeping well aware of the man’s mortal limitations.

“But they won’t be,” he hisses into Sul’s ear. “Not if he knows.” He squeezes a little tighter, smiles a little darker. “ _If_ he knows,” he adds, and slowly eases up, because Sul is just beginning to fade. He slams into him harder the instant Sul catches his breath, knowing his power is so deep inside of the man that it’ll be almost unbearably good. He licks his lips, his eyes bright as he gazes down at Sul, hand still around his throat but not squeezing, letting him breathe. He wants to work with that delicious idea that raced through Sul’s head, of letting Nerevar take his place, but he’ll save it for now, let Sul think he didn’t see it.

 

It hurts. It’s wonderful. Sul wants this to stop. He doesn’t, not really. He tries not to focus on Nerevar, on the hurt, betrayed expression he imagines would be on Nerevar’s face. He tries remembering the joy on Nerevar’s face he thought he saw when this whole mess first started, but even in his memories Nerevar’s face morphs into Ayem’s face. The guilt in his chest solidifies into a painful clenching, accompanying the marks Ayem left on him. He welcomes the pain, lets it root him and his thoughts into some semblance of sanity, and uses it as a bulwark to try to stem the flood of pleasure he no longer wants to feel. It is not enough. It is not nearly enough. 

He’s too stubborn to open his mouth and tell - no, beg -  _Ayem_  to stop, but the words crowd his throat and make it hard to breathe. Ayem wraps his hands around Sul’s throat and squeezes, gently and firmly. Sul almost hopes it will be over soon, but Ayem is never merciful like that, despite his title. 

Sul’s consciousness returns to the sensation of Ayem slamming into him hard, blood-engorged flesh rubbing against overwrought nerves and battered everything and that spot where _bytheancestorsthatwasgooddoitagain!_  He thinks he feels something give way in the process. He’s in that state beyond exhaustion now, too tired to move and unable to properly filter out stimulus. It is overwhelming. His mouth is dry with dehydration and his every breath scrapes across his tongue, his every blink rubs grit against his corneas, his sweat dribbles down his body and soaks into damp spider-silk beneath him, his hair clings to his face and the ends poke at his shoulders, his muscles ache with sympathetic pain and quiver in anticipation of pleasure, he feels blood sing and gather at a hundred bright, burning points on his body, attempting to repair the damage he has sustained tonight. Above all that is the feeling of Ayem. Ayem shows no signs of flagging, and Sul wonders if he’ll simply continue until Sul finally expires. It certainly feels that way. 

“Ayem,” he croaks out, “please.”  _Please do it again. Please continue. Please, I can’t continue like this. Please stop. Please don’t hurt me. Please do this to - no no no pleasepleaseplease-_ “Please.” 

 

Ayem’s fingertips dig a little deeper into Sul’s neck when he begins to beg, and his thrusts speed up until he’s ramming into Sul at an unbearable, brutal pace, though his movements are somehow still filled with grace. Sul is an absolute mess beneath him; he’s a trembling wreck, a mewling, shaking man. Hardly any of what he used to be is left, though Ayem knows not all of it is permanent.

“Yes,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers against Sul’s neck now, as if pleased by his actions. “Say my name, Sul,” he gasps, ramming right into the spot that will give Sul the most explosive pleasure. “You’re  _mine,_ ” he growls, tightening his grip around Sul’s throat before he can really fulfill what Ayem asked of him. His voice is half-Ayem, half-Nerevar when he says those words, for he knows it will only dig the cracks in Sul’s mind deeper. “You’re mine as much as  _he_ is,” he continues, merciless, for this is not a time for mercy. “And maybe,” he gasps, still thrusting deep into Sul’s overworked, exhausted body — he’s closer now than before, and might as well give in soon enough, “when I do this to Nerevar… maybe I’ll let you _watch_ this time, when I  _break_  him.”

 

 _Ayem_ , Sul thinks.  _Ayem_. Ayem’s hands around his throat prevent him from talking, but he hopes Ayem can pull his name from Sul’s mind and be satisfied with just that. He wants Ayem to be happy, because when Ayem isn’t happy he hurts Sul. 

Ayem must have understood, because his thrusts move in a way that makes Sul want to stay like this, forever, waves of pleasure battering at his breaking mind. Sul is Ayem’s now, every part of him, inside and out, claimed by rough hands and possessive lips, and he knows he has broken, somehow, and resigns himself. When he thinks of Ayem now he remembers brilliance, feels the echoes of delight ringing in his ears, remembers devotion to something great and wonderful. Nerevar’s memory stubbornly clings to his mind, though, a faded shadow compared to Ayem’s brilliance,the sensation of a gentle hand on his cheek. 

Ayem claims ownership of both him and Nerevar, and Sul thinks that this is right, this is the way it must be, the way things should be from now on. Ayem can play the both of them like fiddles, and they will dance to Ayem’s tune, puppets on the string of his divinity. 

Ayem is clearly excited now, in a way Sul recognizes from recent experience. He shivers with wild joy. Ayem suggests breaking Nerevar, and letting him watch. Sul is glad he won’t be on the receiving end of such lessons again, and disappointed because he wants to do this again and he doubts anyone else can do what Ayem has done to this. Perhaps, if he’s really good, Ayem might even let him join in, and together they can teach Nerevar. The thought is delicious, and he can’t help but smile. Ayem laughs, a dark rich, brilliant sound, finally driven over the edge, and in the process her power rakes Sul’s mind, singing of pleasure and release and ownership like a hammer blow to a weak point. This moment is perfect and  _real_ , the way nothing else this night has been before. 

 

Ayem’s breath catches in his throat. He didn’t expect for Sul to break quite so beautifully, but there are the pieces shattered on the floor, there is the fine web of his mind cracked in twain. He shudders, then laughs, the force of his release nearly overwhelming him. It is pure, twisted pleasure spreading through his veins; the hand around his heart is gripping him so tightly he can barely breathe. He keeps moving, keeping a steady hold on Sul’s throat, finding something intoxicating about the way it convulses under his hand as the man struggles for breath. 

When he’s through, he doesn’t move except to lean closer down over Sul. He slowly removes his hand from Sul’s throat, trailing his too-hot fingers up the boy’s bruised neck to touch his chin. He presses the pad of his thumb against Sul’s lips, slick with saliva, and smiles indulgently. He considers adjusting Sul and forcing him to go through all of it all over again, now that he doesn’t need to confine himself to somewhat subdued actions, now that he doesn’t need to play Nerevar half the time. He decides against it if only because he knows Sul would likely pass out not even a quarter of the way through, and his smile widens.

“Mine,” he murmurs to Sul, though he knows the man to be mostly delirious. “Look at me, Sul,” he says, the name sliding off his tongue like sweet honey - half-Nerevar, half-Ayem once again.

 

Sul lets his muscles unclench, and he relaxes back into the sheets. He gasps for air, eyes closed, Ayem’s fingers tracing hot trails on his body like ephemeral artwork. 

Sleep drags at the edges of his consciousness, but Ayem tell him to look, and so he does, eyelids fluttering with the need to close. Ayem slowly pulls out, leaving an oddly empty feeling inside. He almost wishes Ayem were in him again. 

“Ayem,” he breathes, “Ayem.” And the name is beautiful. Ayem kisses him slowly, possessively, and it plants an idea in his mind. He wonders if Nerevar misses him yet. He tries to figure out how long it would take for him to make the proper arrangements. He wants Nerevar badly. He wants Nerevar with him, in front of Ayem, and he wants to reconcile Nerevar with his wife. He wants both Ayem and Nerevar, and there is little chance of that happening on its own. 

Ayem strokes his hair like he’s some overgrown house pet, and he leans into the touch. Ayem runs appreciative fingers over his work. Sul lets the half-familiar motions soothe him, and as he falls asleep he hears the sounds of Ordinators, of Almalexia’s Hands, as they barge into the room. 


End file.
